


We Meet In The Sky

by doorwaytoparadise



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hair-pulling, M/M, Mostly Pwp, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Scene: Globe Theatre 1601 (Good Omens), but there's feelings, i rated this explicit but it honestly straddles the line between E and M, post-Hamlet shag but make it Tender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:33:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23993074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doorwaytoparadise/pseuds/doorwaytoparadise
Summary: There’s a five-and-a-half thousand year expanse between them, a relationship planted in a garden and watered by a flood, cradled and stoked in Rome, in Wessex, in the making of the Arrangement. Crowley has been circling Aziraphale carefully, always watchful of threats around them and always mindful of the angel beside him. He assumed that’s where he’d stay, always orbiting, but never closing in, held at bay by gravity and physics and two opposing sides.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 38
Kudos: 176





	We Meet In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This started with [some art I drew of Aziraphale pulling Crowley's hair](https://sungmee.tumblr.com/post/616591561983197184/crowley-has-so-much-hair-at-the-globe-maybe), then grew into a fic that began in the DMs to elizabethelizabeth (also my lovely beta reader), then spiraled into all this. This is part of the beginning of my journey into writing for Good Omens, and certainly the start into anything smutty, so [gestures broadly]

Hamlet, for all that Crowley preferred the funny ones, was not a bad play. It was made even better by getting to watch it with Aziraphale right next to him, and finding himself in a tavern afterwards, with the angel happily sharing wine, was just the icing on the cake. A night of steady drinking and good company was always pleasant, and the soft sort of haze the alcohol now had him in made the night feel just a touch dreamy. 

He and Aziraphale are both standing off to the side, away from most of the other patrons, Aziraphale chattering to Crowley about the play, about Shakespeare himself, about some good meal he had. Crowley isn’t totally paying attention, more interested in watching the movement of Aziraphale’s hands as he talks, gesturing to emphasize his story. Aziraphale’s hands are strong and solid, built thicker than the long and narrow hands Crowley has, and they’re not young hands, either. Neither of them are young by any means, but Crowley stares at the hint of veins and tendons beneath the signs of age, as Aziraphale waves his hands around. The angel isn’t always graceful, but right now, his hands look like they’re conducting a symphony, and the sight is completely entrancing. 

Crowley is paying such close attention to Aziraphale’s hands, he sees the exact moment one of them reaches out, across the space between them, to touch lightly at the tresses of hair hanging in front of his shoulder. His breath stutters in his chest and he goes utterly still. Aziraphale tuts, still relaxed and cheerful like he isn’t threading his fingers around a strand of Crowley’s hair. He hums to himself and Crowley stops breathing altogether, lest he hyperventilate instead.

“Goodness, your hair is so long now, dear.” Aziraphale murmurs, as he closes his fingers and tugs. 

Crowley's knees buckle. Aziraphale is quick to catch him, snagging him around the waist with one arm. 

“Crowley! Are you quite alright?” 

And Crowley has no idea how to answer that one, because first of all, he himself hadn't expected that kind of reaction to a little tug on his hair and second, Aziraphale is now holding him up like some cliché romantic story, one arm snug around his waist, the other carefully fluttering around his chest, his face, his arm, gentle and worried. Crowley thinks he’d be fine discorporating right there.

Crowley half-wonders if he just passes out, would Aziraphale scoop him into his arms and carry him away? Would they end up in a private room, just the two of them, would the angel fuss and fret over him? He banishes these thoughts as soon as they form, embarrassed, and tries to pull his usual cool and confident swagger back into place. Aziraphale is still looking at him, all wide concerned eyes and earnest expression, and with how close they are, the effect is near fatal.

Crowley clears his throat self-consciously, tries to put some distance between them, because Aziraphale's arm is so very warm, and the angel is very close and he's so _warm_ , and Crowley really needs to get himself under control before his stupid racing heartbeat gives him away.

As he wiggles himself back, Aziraphale lets him go, and maybe Crowley is a little disappointed, maybe some part of him was hoping Aziraphale would tighten his grip- but that's something to bury in the back corners of himself, and he carefully puts a few inches of safety between them. 

And promptly almost chokes, because Aziraphale's arm is definitely lingering and it drags along Crowley's hip as Aziraphale pulls back. Ok this is fine, Crowley can handle this, he thinks. Aziraphale is close, so tantalizingly close, and he's lingering and open and his focus is entirely on Crowley, all that angelic attention pinned solely on him and him alone, and Crowley feels like the intensity of that gaze is going to make him combust.

Aziraphale must not be aware, surely not, that he's being so incredibly tempting, that he's all of Crowley's desires wrapped up in one package, right here and right now. Aziraphale is just being nice and kind, like an angel is supposed to be, and there's nothing more behind it, and Crowley can go back to his room later and get himself off remembering what it was like to have Aziraphale wrapped around him, and that'll be between him and his hand, another aching moment to add to the collection.

But Aziraphale is still here, still watching him, and his wide worried gaze has gone soft and half-lidded here in the dimly lit tavern. Candlelight sends shadows dancing across Aziraphale's face, through his hair, and changing the color of his eyes with each flicker of the flame. Alcohol has softened them both, the usual line between them muddied and obscured. Crowley swallows hard, feeling like he's absolutely not drunk enough for the way Aziraphale's eyes trace along the lines of him, follow his hands, stare at his face. His tongue darts out to lick his lips and Aziraphale's eyes track the movement. Crowley is definitely not drunk enough but also maybe too drunk for this. Maybe he had too much wine and he's passed out and he's dreaming, because why would Aziraphale ever look at him like he _desires_ him-

All the noise of the tavern ceases in Crowley's ears in a sudden rush. The world stills, his thoughts quiet, and everything hangs suspended in time like Crowley has reached out and frozen it himself. 

Aziraphale has kissed him. Aziraphale has leaned forward, past centuries of friendship, past the divide of their respective sides, and past the few inches hovering between them to kiss Crowley, and the weight of such a small and innocent action is staggering.

In a rush, the noise returns, the flickering candles, the smell of alcohol, and the room settles as it had been, just the same except for Crowley, who is so completely thrown, he thinks he might very well collapse again.

It occurs to him that maybe he should be doing something besides standing stock still, maybe pushing Aziraphale away because they're hardly safe just having their Arrangement, but also maybe kissing him _back_ \-   
And that's the thought that kicks his brain back into gear, jolts him out of his shock and sends him scrambling to reciprocate, because Aziraphale is just starting to pull away and _no, no, no-_ Satan forbid Aziraphale think he doesn't want this too-

Quick as the serpent he still is, his hands are flying up, grasping grasping grasping like a man drowning that's finally found salvation, Crowley snags Aziraphale by the front of his shirt, pulling him back in, desperate and wanting and shaken. Aziraphale goes willingly, leans into Crowley, and presses his lips back to his, hums into the kiss like he's savoring some particularly good bit of food, curls close like Crowley is something precious. Crowley wants to shout, to cry, to run. Wild, manic energy takes root in his chest and expands until it feels too big to sit there in flesh and bone. Kissing Aziraphale is like kissing a thunderstorm, all rumbling strength and distant echoes of something bigger, the edges of him whispering of clanging bells and lion roars, eyes upon eyes and holy fire. Crowley thinks he might burn, the wretched damned thing that he is chasing this holy creature, an Icarus reaching for the sun.

But he doesn't burn, doesn't turn to ash or drop into the sea, because Aziraphale is holding him close, hands coming up to cup at Crowley's face, cradling his jaw and tilting his chin for just the right angle to deepen the kiss. It feels like a firebrand, but only in the best way, a warmth spreading through Crowley and leaving him hard and wanting. The tavern is crowded enough that no one pays them particular mind, but Crowley cuts his eyes to the stairs meaningfully, hoping that he's not reading things wrong, and laid so very bare. He's pulling his walls down here, opening the gates, and inviting Aziraphale inside. Aziraphale is still holding him, still looking at him like he's some kind of wonder, and Crowley is baring his throat, rolling over to expose his belly, vulnerable and waiting. Aziraphale smiles, sweet and sure and loving, and Crowley is not an Icarus, not here not now, because Crowley _soars_.

Aziraphale leads, the bright white of him a beacon, pulling Crowley behind him like a particularly angular shadow, all ink-black and sinuous. He tangles their fingers together like it's something they've always done, like this isn't staggering. Crowley can’t do anything but follow, Aziraphale the north star that lights his way, and they ascend from the lively tavern into a quiet stairwell. Aziraphale swings around, a coy little smile on his face, and backs himself into the wall, tugging Crowley close. Crowley flails a little, at a loss of what to do, because he never thought he'd get something like this- his hands are trembling, just a touch, and Aziraphale takes one between both of his, strokes the bony knuckles and raises it to his lips. He kisses the fingers, the palm, the wrist, and Crowley has forgotten how to breathe.

Aziraphale takes the hand he's holding and nuzzles, actually nuzzles, into it, and Crowley finds himself leaning forward without thinking, desperate to touch the angel. His other hand comes up to run along Aziraphale's side, to trail reverently over his chest, awestruck and overwhelmed. Crowley is filled with such a sudden _need_ to kiss Aziraphale again, he nearly lunges forward, and Aziraphale laughs into his mouth, sounding like a melody in the air.

They make it up the stairs eventually, tripping and stumbling their way into a private room. Crowley nearly faceplants over the threshold, but Aziraphale grabs him and pulls him upright. Crowley spares a second to close the door and lock it, and promptly finds himself backed against it. 

“Oh my dear,” Aziraphale breathes, eyes bright and eager and hungry, “how I've wanted you for so long.” 

Crowley chokes. 

“Ah, y-yeah?” is all he manages to get out, the end of it turning breathless, as Aziraphale's teeth meet his neck.

The angel is nipping at the skin, not quite hard enough to leave a bruise, but the sensation is definitely riling Crowley up. He makes little nonsensical sounds, breath coming short and punctuated by little 'ah, hnn, hgg' noises.

Aziraphale traces a path from jaw to collarbone and around to the other side, meticulous in his exploration, and leaving Crowley squirming and incredibly turned on. The angel pulls back and Crowley quickly reclaims his mouth, begging for entrance with a swipe of his tongue, and immediately finding welcome. Aziraphale tastes like the wine they had been drinking and Crowley is desperate for more. Aziraphale's hands are sliding around Crowley's shoulders, keeping them pressed together as he slows the frantic pace of the kiss that Crowley has set. Some part of Crowley's mind is crying out that this won't last, that he needs to go go go while he still has Aziraphale willingly in his arms, but Aziraphale is steadying him, tongue moving slow and languorous, and Crowley sinks into it.

He thinks maybe if he presses in close enough, maybe if he situates himself just right, he can slot together with Aziraphale so they never have to part, so he can have this warmth, this affection, this desire until the end of time. One of Aziraphale's hands is tracing a line up his neck, drawing a shiver out of Crowley, and sliding up into the rich red curls he's let grow out. Aziraphale's fingers card through his hair, catching on a tangle, and he pulls it loose, and Crowley lifts his head and groans. Aziraphale pauses, hand still buried in Crowley's hair, and Crowley chances a look at his face. There's something heated there, thoughtful but sly, that little hint of bastard shining through, and the expression goes right to Crowley's prick. Aziraphale's hand moves again, the palm flat along Crowley's skull, and he feels it slide up towards the crown, settle there for a second before Aziraphale suddenly makes a fist and _pulls_.

The noise that comes out of Crowley's mouth is a guttural breathless sound that tapers into a moan, as he throws his head back, his whole body reacting. Aziraphale, bless him, looks smug. Crowley would love to kiss the look off his face, but he's still trying to retrieve his higher brain functions.

Aziraphale gives a little experimental second tug and Crowley actually whimpers, the sensation driving him to fling an arm out and grasp at Aziraphale’s doublet. Aziraphale is leaning close now, breath ghosting over the skin of Crowley’s throat, tucked into the point where neck meets shoulder. He pauses.

“Angel, you are going to kill me.” Crowley rasps.

Aziraphale exhales something that might be a laugh but gets caught somewhere on his tongue, and Crowley shivers as it gusts over his skin. There’s a scrape of teeth, the wet hot slide of Aziraphale’s tongue, and then the angel is biting down, this time hard enough to leave his mark. He sucks a bruise into the skin and Crowley’s back arches.

“Aziraphale, _please_ -” Crowley cuts himself off, not knowing what he even wants to ask for, but Aziraphale seems to understand. He grabs Crowley by the hips and smoothly swings them both around, moving them through the room until Crowley feels the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. 

Already distinctly off-balance, it only takes a little push from Aziraphale before Crowley is falling backward onto the mattress. Aziraphale is quick to follow, prowling forward so he’s on all fours above Crowley. Crowley stares up at Aziraphale, feeling like all the air has been sucked out the room, and all the tension between them is now distilled down to this point and this point alone. 

There’s a five-and-a-half thousand year expanse between them, a relationship planted in a garden and watered by a flood, cradled and stoked in Rome, in Wessex, in the making of the Arrangement. Crowley has been circling Aziraphale carefully, always watchful of threats around them and always mindful of the angel beside him. He assumed that’s where he’d stay, always orbiting, but never closing in, held at bay by gravity and physics and two opposing sides. 

But Aziraphale, it seems, has other ideas, has reached out from where he sat at the center of Crowley’s world, a shining sun in a cold and dark expanse, and pulled him in close. Aziraphale is above him now, close enough to feel the heat radiating from him, to see the way desire has darkened his eyes and feel exactly how much he wants Crowley. Crowley has been wanting for so long, and the realization that it's something he gets to have, even for just this night, is staggering. If one night is all he gets, then let that be all that he needs.

Aziraphale has slotted his knees between Crowley’s legs, his hands braced on either side of Crowley’s head, and Crowley cranes his neck to take him in, momentarily struck dumb. The dim light from the window catches in his pale hair and gives him a fuzzy sort of halo, and Crowley wants to lay himself bare in the wake of such divinity. 

When Aziraphale dips his head, lays himself down to fully cover Crowley, Crowley stops breathing. The weight is a warm and welcome one, even as Aziraphale presses one leg up between Crowley’s and sends pleasure shooting up his spine. His back arches off the sheets, fisting at the fabric and crying out ‘ _God-, Satan-, Aziraphale, please_ ’, and Aziraphale is snapping his fingers to divest the both of them of trousers, doublet, shirt, and all. 

Cool air hits Crowley’s now bare skin, making him shiver, even as he can suddenly feel all of Aziraphale against him, the hot press of skin on skin, the brush of his chest hair, Aziraphale’s own arousal against his thigh. The sensation is almost too much to handle, as sudden as it is, the closeness near overwhelming. Crowley heaves in a breath, tries to get his stupid limbs to work, shaking the deer-in-headlights haze from his brain. Aziraphale is here, holding open a door, and Crowley is helpless to do anything but run inside. 

Laid out on a bed above a tavern, the taste of wine still in his mouth, Crowley for once lets himself take. He’s always wanted to give to Aziraphale, everything the angel would accept, and the success of Hamlet is part of that. He understood that Aziraphale couldn’t really thank him or return the favor, didn’t want him to, but this, a night together, this is something he’ll latch onto. This is something he _wants_. Greedy demon hands will hold this moment close and burn the memory into his mind, of Aziraphale working him open until he keens, practically begs to be fucked, of Aziraphale pressing at his entrance, slick and wanting and wanting to give to Crowley. Crowley has thrown his head back, gripping tight at Aziraphale’s shoulders like the contact is the only thing keeping him grounded. Like he would go flying from the earth’s surface without Aziraphale pinning him down. 

When Aziraphale finally, finally slides inside him, careful and slow, it punches a low ‘ _ffffffuuuu-’_ out of Crowley’s chest, hips jerking as Aziraphale holds him by the thighs. Aziraphale makes a noise that’s half-sigh, half-moan, the sound like honey in Crowley’s ears. He leans up without conscious thought, catches Aziraphale’s mouth, and gladly lets himself be pressed down into the mattress as Aziraphale rocks forward. He can feel Aziraphale’s thighs against the backs of his own, the softness of him, but the strength of him as well. Aziraphale is going slow, a maddening push and pull between them, and a tight spiral of pleasure is building in Crowley’s gut. He can hardly stand it, hyper-sensitive to the _touchsoundsmell_ of Aziraphale, feeling like there’s spice in his mouth where Aziraphale had been, feeling like he’s drowning in those ridiculous stormy sea eyes. 

“ _Aziraphale_.” He breathes out, almost choking and feeling adrift.

Aziraphale threads one hand in his hair again, gathers a handful of strands, and tightens his grip, creating a focus point, something solid. He pulls Crowley to shore even as the increasing pace of his thrusts leave Crowley feeling like he’s breaking open.

The rising, cresting, growing wave of ecstasy is turning Crowley’s mind to white noise, for once the ever-running thoughts quieting. Crowley tilts his head back, mouth falling open, rising up to meet Aziraphale as best he can, legs wrapping around his back, as though Crowley could fuse them together to become one. Every nerve is alight, every wall and rule and restriction between them melting into nothing, as Aziraphale gives one final thrust, hitting Crowley’s sweet spot with just the right touch, and sending him over the edge. He slams his eyes shut, orgasms with Aziraphale’s name tangled on his tongue, and feels Aziraphale hitting his own climax right after, spilling into him with a sharp cry. 

They lie there, breathing heavily together, cocooned in the darkness and still joined, as the high settles into something softer. Crowley still has his eyes closed when he feels Aziraphale press their foreheads together.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale whispers his name as reverent as a prayer.

“Crowley, look at me?”

Crowley has never been able to say no to Aziraphale, so he cracks his eyes open. Aziraphale is so close, Crowley can almost see his reflection in the irises. There’s a faint flush still lingering in Aziraphale’s cheeks, giving him a rosy kind of glow, and perspiration has left both of them sticky, and Crowley is still all too aware of Aziraphale. He swallows hard. 

“Are you okay?” Aziraphale asks, all genuine concern, and Crowley can only nod jerkily, can barely even begin to form words at this point. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, and he feels like he’s shed his skin; like Aziraphale broke him apart and put him back together and the pieces are still trying to click. 

Aziraphale gives him a look full of something soft, maybe even fond, and pushes himself up and back. He slides out and Crowley bites back the whine that rises from the loss, twitching from overstimulation and at the sudden emptiness. And then he has a moment, laying there as Aziraphale moves around, wondering if this meant anything at all. 

Alright, sure, there was something significant there, boundaries crossed like they were playing hopscotch, but Crowley knows what he wants it to mean, even with the danger. No holy light has appeared to smite them, no demons have come to drag either of them down, and he can still sense the holiness in Aziraphale’s aura, so maybe this was alright. But it’s one thing to want any kind of anything with the angel, and another thing entirely to actually get something, no matter how much he’s been running around behind Aziraphale like a lost puppy. It seems his mind has returned to its restless state post-haste, and the anxious thoughts tumble round and round like, well, something that tumbles. 

‘ _Was this just thanking me? Are you only interested in sex? Was this just a one-time thing?_ ’ 

Crowley stares at the ceiling, and he definitely isn’t working himself into a panic, not at all, because Aziraphale is a creature of pleasure, who has never denied himself any earthly delight, and maybe that's all this is, as simple as a meal, as trivial as a wine. This could all be just a dalliance of Aziraphale’s, because why would he act now when it's been centuries of dancing around, and all it was was a stupid play, hardly more than a little favor, and Crowley is far too gone and in love to handle rejection right now, and he jerks upright on the bed, because maybe he should just leave, shit does Aziraphale want him to leave? He can leave-

Aziraphale is suddenly there in front of him, hands on his shoulders, a grounding touch. Crowley exhales. Aziraphale has his shirt back on, hanging loose and open, and giving teasing little flashes of skin, now cleaned up completely, which now that Crowley is noticing, he is as well. He’s running one hand back through Crowley’s hair, but a little gentler this time, fingers combing through the wild tangle it's become. Aziraphale hums thoughtfully. 

“I’m afraid I’ve certainly made a mess of your hair, dear. I could brush it out for you, if you like?”

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, to say ‘ _yes yes, I very much like_ ’ or maybe ‘ _you could completely ruin it and I wouldn’t care_ ’, or something smooth or witty, but what actually comes out is a small and quiet

“You want me to stay?”

Crowley is avoiding looking at Aziraphale, embarrassed at such a needy response, and the hand in his hair stops moving. He wants to berate himself for his stupid big mouth and his stupid big feelings, and he doesn’t notice Aziraphale’s other hand has left his shoulder until it curves around his jaw. He jumps a little at the contact, flustered and feeling raw. Aziraphale tilts Crowley’s head until their eyes meet, and Crowley feels a little stunned at the look on the angel’s face. 

“I want you to stay,” Aziraphale says with no uncertainty, and Crowley’s heart does something funny in his chest.

“I want you to stay, as long as you want to as well.”

Crowley feels his world tilt and realign, because Aziraphale is telling him what he wants, no fussing or hinting or meaningful looks to cover himself or let them pretend they’re something other than what they are. Aziraphale is telling him what he wants, and that it’s Crowley. 

“Yeah, angel, I-, yeah.” is what Crowley says, but what he means is _‘I want to stay, forever and always, I want you, I need you, I love you.’_

And Aziraphale, who is fluent in every dialect of Crowley, understands. His smile is sunlight through stained glass, radiant and soft. Icarus makes it to shore. 

Aziraphale summons a brush from somewhere, crawls onto the bed behind Crowley, and situates them both into more comfortable positions. Crowley has donned his shirt as well, and he relaxes as Aziraphale pulls the whole mane of his hair around to the back. The pull of the brush is soothing, guided by Aziraphale’s steady hand, and Crowley thinks he would purr if he could. 

Over and over, Aziraphale strokes over the curls, until they sit smooth across Crowley’s shoulders. He can feel how much Aziraphale has untangled them by how much less the bristles catch, and the whole thing has nearly put him to sleep. He’s started lilting to one side, feeling pleasantly drowsy in a way he’s not sure he ever has before. Everything is comfortable, despite the whirlwind of the day, and Crowley decides he’s not going to overthink it this time, at least not tonight. Tonight had been more pleasure than he could really remember having, and if this, this post-sex domestics, was any indication, it likely wasn’t the end. 

Aziraphale’s fingers are threading through his hair now, gently running his nails over Crowley’s scalp, and the sensation sends shivers up his spine. He lets out a low pleased hum, and Aziraphale laughs quietly behind him, scratches a little, then starts pulling the hair into strands. Crowley wonders where Aziraphale learned to braid, but can’t be bothered to disturb him and ask, only melts further into the mattress. Aziraphale’s fingers are deft in this, carefully weaving and tucking and adjusting, until he ties the whole thing off. 

“There you are, my dear, should keep out of the way now.”

Crowley sighs as Aziraphale pulls his hands away, mumbles something like a thank you, and lets himself fall backwards. Aziraphale lets out a startled ‘oof’ as Crowley melds himself into his lap, curling into the angel’s chest with a satisfied sound. Aziraphale snorts, and Crowley can feel his amusement as he closes his eyes and relaxes. Aziraphale has tossed the brush aside and managed to get them under the sheets with a quick miracle, sliding and wiggling until they’re both lying down, Crowley spooned by Aziraphale. 

There’s a kiss pressed to the back of Crowley’s neck, there’s an arm draped over his waist, there’s legs tangling with his. There is an angel in bed with him, an angel who made love to him, an angel who’s the tether keeping Crowley in place. Maybe this should all send up a wave of red flags, maybe it should leave him feeling dirty and horrified because he’s a demon and Aziraphale is so beautiful it hurts and they really should be keeping each other at arm’s length, all things considered. It might look different in the light of the morning, and the future is still so uncertain, but even from their first meeting, Crowley had felt a connection, a kindred spirit, and it had only blossomed from there, and nothing about this feels like it could be wrong. Maybe he should be running away as fast as he can, from angels and Arrangements and nights in taverns, but Aziraphale fits perfectly behind and around him, and surely they’ve both struggled enough. They can have this, they can have something. 


End file.
